Movement around us as others are released. Panic.

I drop to the floor before Sancho can gut me with his dagger. When I shoot up, my palm smashes into his chin. His head snaps back, cracking against the wall; then he slides down, head at an odd angle, as he crumples to the floor.

The crowd is too thick, too frantic, for me to draw my sword, so I grab Sancho’s dagger and thrust it deep into Beto’s neck. He topples over, blood spilling everywhere.

Too late, I realize my mistake.

Blood soaking into the earth will make the animagus stronger.

A woman screams as another banner goes up in flames. Everyone mills about, trying to get away. Tristán and Juan-Carlos have drawn their swords; they close ranks before the prince and Carilla and Iladro. I press forward, trying to get to them, using knees and elbows, but I keep getting pushed back by the panicked crowd.

A great boom reverberates through the ballroom, and I startle so badly that I trip over someone’s gown and almost fall to my knees. The double doors have been slammed shut, closing us in. “We’re trapped!” someone yells.

My heart feels like it’s leapfrogging out of my chest. I don’t have time to panic. I don’t have time to stop and do the breathing exercises Hector taught me. I have to be fine right now. Still hearts, I tells myself. Still hearts, still hearts.

People pound on the door with their fists. The fire spreads to another table.

“Silence!” the Invierno yells, and the air goes taut once again.

This time I’m frozen midstep, my knee raised. Ahead of me, close but so, so far away, Father Nicandro turns his head to look at the sorcerer.

The priest can move. Not much, but it gives me hope.

I remember what he said about my Godstone. My instinct is to grab it, but of course I can’t.

Instead, I do exactly what Elisa taught me: I hold an image of the Godstone in my head, and focus on it. I pretend my feet are one with the earth. I reach down mentally, grasping for the well of power, the magic that lives beneath the skin of the world.

My step lands. It’s working. I concentrate harder.

“The empress Elisa will be merciful to those who obey her,” the sorcerer intones. “But she is not here today. I am. And I have no mercy for the disobedient.”

I’m not too terrified for my prince, nor too caught up in my efforts to shake the freezing spell, that I don’t recognize a bit of terrible theater when I hear it. “No mercy for the disobedient?” This is a staged crisis. And someone wanted as many people as possible to witness it.

Someone wants everyone to blame Elisa.

The sorcerer raises his staff again. This time, he aims for the crowd.

I’m able to take another step, but I won’t reach him in time. A stream of flame, as swift and white-hot as lightning, shoots from the staff, crashes into a huddled group. The brightness sears my eyes. The scent of burning hair and flesh chokes me. I recognize the mayor and Lady Jada just before their agonized faces are melted away.